Death Is Only the Beginning
by TheGodess18
Summary: OK my first story! This is about a girl who's father dies in a car crash on her birthday and comes back as a ghost to help her move on from his death. It's not completely fiction, and it's a short story, but I'm working on something bigger now.


Sabrina Owens

Death Is Only the Beginning

Pg.1

Liesa Traverse. That's me…or was me, the once peppy popular town girl, residing in peaceful, beautiful Greene, Ohio. Now, one exact week from my fifteenth birthday, I was one of the dark, depressing, grungy kids I used to feel so sorry for. Well, now I know how they feel—and it's not the best of feelings. It's actually…well, depressing.

Technically speaking, I've fallen a long way. As I look back at it now, I almost lost myself to the grief—the intense, back-breaking, _soul-eating_ that came with fate's birthday gift to me. Because, on the night of my fifteenth birthday, September 25, my father died in a fatal car crash.

Now, I had a great relationship with my father—I was his little girl. When I found out…I don't even know; something just _died _inside of me. _Everything_ died everything around me. I can still feel the aching cramps of sleeping my miserable nights in the fetal position: A cramping, enclosed ball on my mattress, rocking back-and-forth while crying myself to sleep. During those unbearable nights, I just let the sorrow eat at me…eat at my soul.

But fate wasn't finished with me it seemed. My mother decided she and I should move up to Akron, to escape the memories. I had to leave my friends, my school, and my old reputation. At my new school, I established myself immediately…as a depresso emo girl. I spoke to absolutely no one. I didn't respond to my teachers, and didn't even look at my peers. For awhile, I actually thought I had gone mute to the world. Heck, everyone else thought I was. Then again, no one even attempted to converse with me. Without speaking, I had been named the "school antisocial". This name, this _title_, was way different than my old, outgoing self.

Akron itself wasn't a happy place in itself; there was drama, violence, and absolute reign of ignorance, perfect for a soap opera in my opinion. At school, there was a fight everyday, melodrama every other day, and a new top-gossip, rumor or occurrence every week. Back in Greene, we barely had any of this crap. It was frightening, and hard to get used to.

Let's move on, because if there's anything that I've learned, is that lingering isn't mentally healthy. After school, I usually went to Prentice Park, for quiet solitaire, escaping the noise of all those idiots. I almost laughed as I thought, _And this generation is supposed to be America's future. _In a funny way, it was a depressing thought.

Before I move on, let me add; this is a tale of the supernatural. If you're one of those skeptics—which I used to be—please find something else to read. I don't want to hear any of that ignorant lip smacking. And it all technically started on the Monday of my third week in Akron…

Pg. 2

I sat down heavily on one of the swings at Prentice, making the hood of my hoodie fall to reveal strange (but natural!) hair; blonde, with red and black mixed in like spices in chili. I removed my sunglasses, blinking hard as wind blew into my swollen no-longer-blue-now-puffy-red-eyes. I always cried. It was a daily routine now. The whites of my eyes were now a permanent pink color. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I leaned on the swing's chain, staring out at the

green field that led out to the football field, a great clad of red swarming over its green-and-white surface.

Bored, I gently pushed myself, rocking instead of swinging. I really did wish I wasn't so sad anymore. For one, my father never left my mind. His jokes, smiles, and foolish attempts to make me laugh still haunted my memories. His voice rang in my ears. I felt the tears fall before I could stop them. A sob wracked my body. The dam I had built to repress my emotions was slowly cracking everyday.

It was then a loud screeching and clanking made me jump. The swing next to me was swinging back and forth. There was no wind, no breeze. As, I wiped away my tears, I saw a large mass of white mist in the shape of a man sitting on the rubber seat. I was too amazed to be alarmed. Like an idiot, I asked in a hoarse voice, "Who…what are you?" A cold feeling came over me. A strange, senseless whispering filled my head. The swing kept swinging, steadily. I shivered. Another act of stupidity, as I reached out towards the swing. It came to a stop, and a vibrating sensation enveloped my hand. A rush of adrenaline went through me. The whispering returned, this time with a few recognizable words strung in. "Don't…scared…Princess…here."

They were just a string of words, but they made me freeze. My father always used to call me Princess, even when he was mad at me. I suddenly felt childish and vulnerable. "Daddy?" I couldn't stop the words as they slipped from my dry mouth. The mist deformed and disappeared. The feeling of being utterly alone returned. Had I been hallucinating? Was I going insane from grief? I sat there, stunned into paralysis. I don't know how I managed to stand and walk home.

The next few days went by without consequence. No apparitions, no cold feelings I couldn't explain, no whispering. Just me in my corners, silent and red-eyed. It wasn't very comforting, having to deal with everyone's odd looks or judgmental stares. Usually I ignored it, but now I glared back, waiting for them to avert their gaze.

Everyday, I went to Prentice at some point (yes I did cut a few classes), waiting for what I expected to be my father's spirit to return again. The swings stayed still, the mild September days remained warm. Nothing. I finally got sick of waiting, dismissed the whole thing as temporary insanity, and started going straight home after school.

Pg. 3

Of course, you've seen the movies; that wasn't even close to the end. In fact, it was the cliché beginning of a chain of events. For, example, on e morning, all of the magnets on the fridge had been moved. We found them in

the cutlery drawer. My father hated those magnets. Made no sense to him. Every morning, I woke up with a different plushie animal, when I didn't sleep with them anymore. There were the occasional cold spots, though none of them lingered.

The biggest…thing, I guess—that happened was when I was trying to fall asleep, and I felt something tuck me in. It wasn't mom. The morning afterwards

was a Saturday. I usually slept in until three in the afternoon. However, I was awakened by something early in the morning, and it was stroking hair. There was a dent in the mattress in front of me, right where the crook of my body was from my curled position.

"Daddy…here…love…little…scared…you."

The whispering cam back. It was him, I knew it. "Dad, please," I murmured. "Is that you? Dad?"

Hair was brushed back from my face. I shivered as the room became cold. "Sorry…can't…cold."

"No biggy." I couldn't believe I was talking to a ghost, let alone my father. "I miss you, Dad." My voice broke. "I need you. Make it all better like you used to."

There was a silence, then, "Can't…know…please stop…so dark…be happy." The words came out more clearly this time. I snorted. "Be happy? Don't you see how dark I've become? I'm so emo, Dad." There was a sigh. "Bear up…please…for your mother." This time, it sounded as if he were actually speaking, just having some difficulty. I ventured a question. "What are you doing here, Dad? Shouldn't you be where all the other…people are?"

A pause. "Can't…unfinished…need to be…happy."

I didn't very well understand. "What?"

The cold feeling left, and the dent rose up. He was gone.

Happiness was known to me again. I think for the next few months, in fact almost a year, my father visited me in his various apparitions. He appeared as a mist, and full-scene man, a smoking orb. The air was always cold. We spent time in the park, having unfair snowball fights, and long talks in my room. My mother didn't know the cause of my joy was, but she was happy. At school, I began to talk a bit, answering questions in class. People gave me shocked gawks when they heard me speak. But it didn't help any. Kids still looked at me funny. No one approached me. My confidence wasn't high enough yet for me to approach anyone yet. It had been something Dad talked to me about. "Baby, you need friends here. It isn't healthy to be quiet for so long. I always shrugged ("I got you, Dad.") and he would sigh.

Pg. 4

A year had gone by, and the anniversary of my father's death was approaching, bringing a somewhat grim mood over my household. Even Dad seemed a bit down. "Why so sad, Dad?"

"Just…you'll know soon enough." Little did I know how much of an impact it would be, because two days before the anniversary, Dad visited me, looking very depressed. "What's wrong, Dad?" I asked.

"Princess, it's time for me to go. To move on."

My heart stopped. "You…you're leaving again? Why? Dad you—"

"I shouldn't be here," he interrupted. "I should—I came to help you heal, Liesa. You were killing me, pardon the pun. I couldn't see you so…lifeless."

"Your dead jokes aren't funny."

"I know. But you need friends. People, _living_ people."

I didn't want to, but I pondered this. "I guess you're right." I said, reluctantly. "But you're leaving for good this time?"

"Yes."

I felt the tears flow. I knew I shouldn't cry, but I did. Vibrating sensations wrapped around me. "Please, Liesa," he begged. "You have to move on…like me. We can't linger in the past. It just brings heartache."

I nodded. I understood, but that didn't mean it still didn't hurt. To know that I had regained my father, but was to lose him again, broke my wounded heart.

Now, I'm at lunch, debating on who to approach. The day of the anniversary, we went back to Greene for the day to visit my father's grave. It was there he said goodbye to me. It was quick. A clean break for me. His last words were, "You need to make the first move. It only takes one step forward to move away from a previous location." Ah, my dad, the Wise Man.

I had taken to my grungy look and even gothed up a bit. I now appreciated how simple it was to wear, and how it could explain all of my emotions through on little bit of color. I had also had a sudden attraction to heavy, loud music, and poetry. I pictured myself now as an artist, not as the journalist I had wanted to be. Akron drama had ruined that to the greatest extent, because everyday was an 'extra-extra' day.

I stand up, beginning to walk towards a group of gothy kids in the back corner of the cafeteria. Ever since I had begun to speak, it seemed they had taken an interest in me, but they respected my space, gazing at me from afar. But I no longer cried; I no longer hid. I had stepped forward, leaving my past behind like a bad presence.

I knew that wherever my father was, he was smiling at me, pleased at my progress. I gather my courage and stride confidently towards them. They're looking at me now, their eyes welcoming me. I smiled and stopped at the table. They grinned back, pierced and black lips open and inviting, their eyes sparkling

Pg. 5

under their heavy eyeliner and black shadow with expectancy. Clearing my throat, I spoke. "Do you mind if I sit with you guys today?"


End file.
